make your past your past
by tocourtdisaster
Summary: They leave the party with the neutralized mind-controlling comb-thing as soon as they can... A missing scene from the Pilot.


**Notes:** This story is operating under the assumption that the last scene of the pilot, with Pete and the football at the Warehouse, occurs at least a day after the previous scene, where Myka is on the phone with Dickinson. The title of this story comes from "A Twist in My Story" by Secondhand Serenade.

* * *

They leave the party with the neutralized mind-controlling comb-thing as soon as they can slip away from the questions of the students and the demands of the local cops, grab their new rental, and head northwest towards South Dakota going as fast as they can.

"We really should get you to a hospital," she says from her spot behind the wheel of the silver sedan. A quick glance to the side reveals Pete reclined as much as the passenger seat will allow with a hand pressed to his side where he'd been bleeding earlier. She's starting to worry; the wound hadn't seemed deep, but there could be internal damage and Pete's been almost too quiet since the party.

"No, we get this thing to Artie _first_ and _then_ we'll see about getting us fixed up," he says, not even bothering to open his eyes, though Myka can still feel the glare he wants to be giving her right now. "Or are you forgetting that you were in a car accident, too?"

"Hey, at least I had an airbag." She knows she sounds defensive, but that's never stopped her from engaging in an argument before.

"I wasn't the one who ended up outside the SUV," Pete reminds her. She can see him moving his seat to the upright position out of the corner of her eye. "You're probably hurt just as bad as I am, maybe more. So why don't you seem eager to get yourself to a hospital?"

They've already gone over all this at least twice since the crash and she can't imagine either of them are going to give it up any time soon. Stubbornness is apparently a Lattimer family trait as well as a Bering one.

"Because I'm fine!"

"So am I!"

"Really?" she asks, glancing at him again and meeting his eyes for just a second. "You're fine?"

He lets out an irritated sigh before answering. "Okay, maybe not fine, but I don't feel like I need to go to the hospital. I'm just sore. All I need is some aspirin and eight full hours of sleep and then I'll be fine."

"You sure?" she asks, changing the script some. She's tired of arguing the same points, over and over again, and getting nowhere. She's just too tired period.

"Yeah, Myka," he says. He sounds tired, too. "I'm sure."

The next thirty miles pass in silence and Myka is beginning to think that Pete's fallen asleep when he speaks again. "You want me to drive for a while? You've gotta be exhausted."

"I'm okay." The response is automatic and a complete lie. She _is_ exhausted, but too damned stubborn to admit to it.

"No, you're not," he returns smoothly, and Myka has to wonder how tired she really is if she's started to use tennis metaphors to describe their conversation. "If you were fine, you would have booked us a flight out of Cedar Rapids, you remember, the airport we flew into? You wouldn't have decided to drive all the way back to the Warehouse."

She concedes his point with a nod and nothing else. She doesn't want him to get the impression that he knows her because he doesn't. Dickinson will call soon and then she'll be on her way back to civilization, Lattimer too. Probably. And they'll see each other again, but they won't be partners because she's on her way up and he's on his way out the door.

"Myka." His voice is quiet, gentle, like he's trying to calm her. "Let me drive for a while."

"Fine." She stops on the shoulder of the freeway, right next to the sign that declares no stopping, standing, or parking. She hasn't seen another car for miles. A cool breeze teases her face, tugging gently at her hair.

"Give me your jacket," she demands of Pete once he's joined her next to the driver's door. He shrugs out of the tan corduroy without question. She gets into the back of the car while Pete sits behind the wheel. Her own jacket is taken off and bunched into a ball, to be used as a pillow, and Pete's jacket becomes her blanket in her makeshift bed.

She's too tall to be very comfortable laying across the backseat of a car, but it's a testament to her exhaustion that the dull roar of tires over pavement lulls her to sleep before she can even ask Pete to wake her in a few hours.

* * *

The sun is high in the sky when Pete finally wakes her.

"We're at Leena's," he tells her without prompting. "I already dropped off the comb-thing with Artie, but you were dead to the world, so I let you sleep."

"Thanks," she says, embarrassed that she slept for so long while Pete drove. She's not used to feeling embarrassed. Leena meets them at the front door with two first aid kits. Myka wonders if Artie or Pete called ahead to let her know that they were injured or if Leena is like Pete and gets vibes sometimes.

"You two should get cleaned up," she tells them, her eyes lingering on Pete for a second longer than Myka thinks is strictly necessary. "And you, Pete, should get some sleep. You look terrible."

"Yeah, thanks," Pete replies, already brushing past Leena and heading for the stairs, duffle bag in one hand, first aid kit in the other. He stops at the foot of the stairs and turns around. "Oh, and Myka? If I'm still out at dinner time, come and kick my ass outta bed, will ya?"

"No problem," she says, but it's to his back. He's already halfway up the stairs.

"Would you like some iced tea once you've changed?" Leena asks and Myka has to admit that a nice cold glass of iced tea sounds wonderful right now. "Join me on the patio when you're ready."

And then Leena's gone, too, leaving Myka standing alone in this quiet bed and breakfast, wondering when she started to think of it as welcoming.

She changes quickly and washes her face, promising herself she'll let herself enjoy a nice long, hot shower later. Right now, she wants to check on Pete, make sure he's okay, before she joins Leena.

She knocks on the door to Pete's room, opens it when her knocks go unanswered. He's sprawled across the bed on top of his blankets. His tee shirt has ridden up some, allowing her to see the clean white bandage on his stomach. The edges of a nasty purple bruise are peeking out around the bandage.

He stirs a little before his eyes open and he notices her. "Myka, what…" he trails off and Myka's sure he has no idea what he was going to ask her.

"Just making sure you were still alive," she tells him, leaning her shoulder against the doorframe.

"Thanks, partner," he says through a yawn and then he's out again, snoring softly.

And there's that word again. Partner. It'd been thrown about a bit in Seever City, but hasn't been spoken since, until now. With a start, Myka realizes that even though it hasn't been spoken, it's been there. She and Pete are partners and not just temporary ones. Temporary partners don't trust each other as much as Myka trusted Pete in Iowa. She trusted him with her life and her sanity and he didn't let her down.

Maybe they can make this partnership work, she thinks. She'll put in a good word for him with Dickinson once they're back in D.C. She is, after all, the darling of the Secret Service right now; her word is as good as law, at least until the shine of the Denver op fades.

She pulls Pete's door closed, the latch _snicking_ quietly. She's down the stairs and out the door and almost to the patio when her phone starts to vibrate in her pocket. The phone's display reads 'Dickinson.' Maybe she can put in a good word for Pete sooner than she thought.

The call connects. "This is Bering," she says, taking a seat on the patio and getting comfortable for what is sure to be long discussion.

**end**


End file.
